


Your Hips, Your Lips, They're Mine

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Closing in Closer to You [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dom!Clara, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Handcuffs, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Open Relationships, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7300630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gifts are confusing, to say the least. No note, no name - just bizarre presents for Clara, turning up as regularly as can be expected when you're a time traveller. It's not until a leather collar arrives in her bedroom that Clara realises <em>who</em> exactly is trying to attract her attention, which is how she comes to find herself in a fetish club, sat across the table from the most dangerous woman in the universe. Logically speaking, she shouldn't be turned on... and yet she <em>is</em>...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Hips, Your Lips, They're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> The third part of this series is a lot more F/F based than the last two. If you're not into that sort of thing, you have been warned. There is remedial Whouffaldi at both the beginning and the end, so if you wanna just read that you can. 
> 
> If anyone has any requests for part four, stick 'em in the comments section and I will try my best to fulfil your wishes.

The Doctor wasn’t entirely sure why Clara still insisted on returning to her flat from time to time. It wasn’t like most of her possessions weren’t already in the TARDIS, or that she couldn’t have lived there with him in perfect comfort full time. He’d asked her once – retrospectively, perhaps not at entirely the right time – why she still returned there as regularly as clockwork, but she’d only given him a withering look from her position on her knees, and then done something with her mouth that should have been _entirely_ illegal. 

When she’d proposed the idea last night – airily, over dinner and a bottle of wine – he’d asked again, and this time she’d given him a look that was tinged with something that might have been sadness or condescension, or perhaps both.

“To keep up appearances,” she’d told him over the rim of her glass, affixing him with a patient expression. “To pick up my post. And for… you know, sentimental reasons.” 

“Sentimental reasons?” he’d asked her, not really understanding the premise, wondering whether it was a human thing. “What sentimental reasons?” 

“There’s lots of memories,” she’d said with a soft sigh, setting down her glass and chewing her lip thoughtfully. “And just… it keeps me grounded, OK? Reminds me I’ve got obligations to my planet other than just getting roped in whenever we get potentially-invaded.” 

“But…” 

“Ah, ah, ah, no more complaints, because…” she’d grinned at him then, her mood changing completely as she toyed with her fork. “It’s also a handy little love nest if I want to go out in London on the pull.” 

“True,” he’d said with a chuckle, and so of course he had capitulated to her wishes, which was how he found himself sat on her sofa, hands fiddling with one of the knick-knacks she’d acquired on their trips. It was supposed to be a toy for children, but Clara had appropriated it as an ornament, although the longer he looked at it, the more certain he was it might have had a more phallic use and that the vendor who’d sold it to them had been lying about its function.

“Doctor?” Clara called from the kitchen, pulling him from his reverie. She’d probably found more out-of-date milk that she expected him to take down to the bins. He wrinkled his nose as he recalled the last incident. “Doctor, come here a sec!” 

He pushed himself up and entered the kitchen warily, mentally steeling himself for the task at hand. Fully ready to tackle the mouldering contents of Clara’s fridge, it took him a moment to shift his attention and notice the vase on the counter that had captured Clara’s attention, or the contents that had so surprised her. 

The vase itself was not unremarkable upon first glance: simple, glass, engraved with a design that was partially obscured from his view. What _was_ surprising about the vase was its contents: a large bouquet of dead roses, the stems twisted together in a jumble of thorns, with petals as dry as paper, a thick carpet of them surrounding the vase where it stood. The overall effect was hauntingly beautiful, and for some reason the Doctor took a step closer to Clara automatically, disconcerted by the romantic – or menacing? It was impossible to discern – gesture. 

“Was this you?” Clara asked, her tone an octave higher than usual as she felt panic rise inside her. “Did you mess up the dates for delivery like you did with my food shop that time?” 

“Clara, if I was going to get you flowers, I’d just get you flowers and give them to you. Plus, I’d have left a note. Is there a note?”

“Nope,” she sighed, moving to stand beside him and leaning against him for physical reassurance. “Just the weird vase, and the dead roses. Are they safe? I mean, they’re not space roses or anything, they’re not going to strangle me?” 

He wrapped his arm around her waist and extracted the sonic sunglasses from his pocket with his free hand, putting them on and scowling at the bouquet, scanning it carefully for any form of trap that may lay in wait. “It seems clean. No poisons, no traps, nothing deadly. You’re all clear to take a better look.”

Reaching out, Clara turned the vase to face her, her eyes widening as she took in the design etched upon it: a nude woman with a mass of dark hair, smoking a cigarette and looking – for all the world – as sultry as it was possible to look in 2D. Behind her, the Doctor bit back a laugh, although apparently not quickly enough. 

“What?” she asked him incredulously, smacking him lightly on the arm. “What’s funny?” 

“Well…” he looked down at her with a grin, his eyes alight with laughter. “It’s obviously from one of your conquests, right? They feel like your sex life has just _died_ , so they sent you…” 

“Dead roses in a vaguely smutty vase,” Clara rolled her eyes at his sense of humour, although grinning anyway. “You know, just for the record, most women aren’t this weird. It’s probably someone’s idea of a joke.”

“Bloody odd joke…” he muttered, making a face that clearly said _humans are weird_. “Want me to bin them?” 

“Please,” Clara concurred, wrinkling her nose and opening the fridge, inspecting the contents critically. “Hey, the milk is in date! Fancy a cuppa?” 

“Sure,” the Doctor said absentmindedly, as he opened the bin and deposited the bouquet in there in lieu of walking down six flights of stairs. “Also-” 

“Why don’t you ever buy me flowers?” she asked suddenly, flicking the kettle on and then turning to face him, narrowing her eyes at him dangerously in the kind of way that both made his cock twitch and put him on his guard. “We’ve been married for a year. Ish. Depending which marriage you’re counting. So. Flowers?” 

“Well,” he mumbled, suddenly very aware of the wrath of the tiny woman next to him. “I didn’t really think you were a flowery… sort of… person?” he hazarded as she crossed the distance between them, looking up at him with eyes laden with mischief and desire.

“Oh?” she asked, her voice low and vaguely menacing as the lust in her eyes intensified. “And what would make you think that?” 

“I…” he stammered, taking half a step backwards only for Clara to follow him, backing him against the worktop and pinning him there, one hand either side of his waist. “I don’t know…” 

“You know,” she breathed, one of her hands coming up to trail down the line of his t-shirt, dipping below the waist of his jeans and giving him a quick squeeze. “Even very _bad_ girls like romance sometimes…” 

He inhaled sharply as she ran her nails lightly along his length, embarrassed by how badly he needed her in that instant. “Oh?” he managed, through clenched teeth, determined not to let her see his desperation, determined not to buck into her hand needily. “Is that so?” 

“Oh yes,” she reached up to kiss him, her lips millimetres from his, and they were going to fuck, he knew it, he _needed_ it, and then…

There was the soft click of the kettle boiling, and Clara danced away from him with a wicked laugh, reaching up into a cupboard for two mugs. He was presented – as perhaps had been her plan – with the soft curve of her arse in skin-tight jeans, and he moaned aloud then, moving to stand behind her, kissing her neck with the kind of urgency that only served to make her giggle. 

“Now now,” she chided gently, as his hands slid up her top searchingly. “Is this a promise of flowers?” 

“There’s a planet,” he told her, between kissing her neck and unclasping her bra. “Covered in roses and four poster beds.” 

“That sounds made up,” she accused him, twisting in his grasp so that she could reciprocate his kisses, tugging at his belt insistently, even as she accused: “Are you lying?”

“Deadly serious,” he vowed, and she kissed him hard then, biting down on his bottom lip and eliciting a moan in response. “Honest.” 

“Well then,” she said, pulling off her top and hopping up onto the worktop, opening her legs for him. “Next stop – _oh…_ ”

 

~/~/~/~

 

They tumbled through the doors of the TARDIS, euphoric in the wake of saving another civilisation, the laughter dying on their lips as they noticed the unexpected arrival. 

The box was sat, quite innocuously, in the console room, perfectly square, rubber-stamped with the word “CLARA” in aggressive red letters. No other markings, no clues, no note: just the box, and her name, and the mystery. 

“Doctor…” Clara began, looking at him sideways, wondering idly whether he’d put in a mass order of sex toys without her knowledge. “What’s this?” 

“Nothing to do with me,” he admitted, determined to absolve himself of any blame. “My gifts are generally a little more… well, less mysterious.” 

“And a little more physical,” she quipped, approaching the box and circling it curiously, running a fingertip over the lid. “So who’s it from? The TARDIS?” There was an indignant, invasive presence in her mind all of a sudden, and she rolled her eyes, holding up her hands in an apologetic manner. “OK, OK, not our time machine then.”

She ripped the box open before he could warn her that there might be potential dangers or traps, looking down at the contents in bemused stupefaction, wondering how to interpret them. 

“What?” he asked worriedly, crossing the distance between them and following her gaze. “Oh…” 

Neatly arranged in the box were rows and rows of dog food: a tinned, premium-brand range with brightly coloured labels shining out at her in regimented order, proclaiming loudly to offer “everything your dog could ever need!” 

“Did I miss something?” Clara asked, her eyebrows knitting together in bafflement. “Are we apparently getting a dog?” 

“Not a chance,” the Doctor muttered, closing the box and sliding it across the floor so that it was out of the way of the console. “I do, however, know where we can offload that lot. Clara, how’d you fancy going to Barcelona?” 

“Barcelona, Spain?” 

“Barcelona, the planet. They’ve got puppies with no noses.”

She pretended to ponder the issue, before beaming at him hopefully. “Can I keep one?” 

“No.” 

“Dammit.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

It was not until the arrival of the final gift, some weeks later, that the penny at last dropped for Clara as to the nature of her mysterious admirer. It had been a long day, the Doctor was in a foul mood, and so she had dropped onto her bed with a sigh, kicking off her shoes and rolling over with her eyes closed, encountering the sleek purple box only when a sharp corner met her ribs.

She sat up immediately, rubbing her torso where it had jabbed her before lifting it into her lap, turning it over for a note, a name, anything, but it remained stubbornly anonymous, offering no clues as to either the sender or the contents. Prying the lid off, she peeled back sheets of deep crimson tissue paper to reveal a smooth, black leather collar, human-sized, with a small silver tag hanging neatly from one side. Turning it over, she gasped as realisation dawned on her, reading and re-reading the single word engraved on it and understanding, at last, who had been sending her the mysterious gifts. 

 _Puppy._  

Her phone rang and she answered it within microseconds, her hands trembling only slightly as she lifted the device to her ear, knowing who the caller would be. “Hello.”

“You don’t sound all that surprised to hear from me, so one would assume you got my last gift and your tiny human brain finally put two and two together and got four,” came the soft, distinctive voice from the other end. “Honestly, if I’d known you’d be this slow, I would’ve gone with a more conventional method of communication.” 

“Like what?” Clara asked, her mouth adding: “Trying to kill me?” before her brain could veto the words. 

“Trying to kill you _is_ sort of our texting. Speaking of which, going to need you to meet me, sending coordinates. It’s fairly urgent, dear.” 

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Clara asked suspiciously, narrowing her eyes slightly, yet knowing already that she would go, of course she would go, because she understood what this meant. 

“Oh, you don’t,” the voice purred. “But you’re curious, and that means you’ll come.” 

“Oh does it?” Clara swallowed, trying to ignore the seductive tone the caller had taken on, trying to ignore the potential double meaning behind their words, but knowing already that her fate was sealed.

“We’ll chat more in person, dearie. Don’t tell the husband, there’s a good girl. I doubt he’d approve of our little rendezvous.” 

The call terminated abruptly before her phone beeped once again, a long series of numbers and letters displaying on the screen. Sighing, Clara got off her bed, getting ready for the mysterious meeting as quickly as she was able, before heading for the console room on silent feet, phone clutched in one hand and the collar in the other.

“Hey,” she whispered to the console as she typed in the coordinates, running her hand over the switches and dials lovingly. “So, this is going to be like my Wednesday nights, old girl… just between the two of us. No telling the Doctor.”

She eased the handbrake off and sent them hurtling through space, the TARDIS opting to work in her favour as they landed almost silently in the unknown location, the time machine beeping at her softly in what she hoped was a concerned yet affectionate way. Feeling adrenaline beginning to course through her veins, Clara stepped outside, finding herself in what – for all intents and purposes – appeared to be an upmarket wine bar, decked out almost entirely in chrome, the walls lined with dramatic mood lighting and black, leather-upholstered seating booths. 

“There you are,” came a familiar voice, and she turned, catching sight of Missy at one of the tables and feeling her heartrate skyrocket. “Come on, I don’t bite.” 

“Sure about that?” Clara asked as she slid into the seat opposite the Time Lady, eyeing her somewhat warily but trying to keep her cool. “I mean, you _did_ more or less break into our TARDIS-” 

“' _Our_ TARDIS?’ Oh, now that’s telling,” Missy grinned wolfishly, sipping at a glass of red wine and surveying Clara with an unreadable expression. “Would this development be because of those silly little weddings you both seem so fond of?” 

“How do you know about those?” Clara fought to keep her voice even as she scowled at Missy, both irritated and smug to know that the Time Lady knew of her matrimonial activities. “How could you _possibly-”_

“Oh, please,” Missy scoffed lightly, offering her glass of wine to Clara, who declined it as politely as she could manage. “You really think people don’t take any note of the pint-sized human and the gangly Scottish stick insect that bounce around the galaxy like lovesick puppies? I hear little voices from all over, and I follow them.” 

“Into the TARDIS, apparently,” Clara said drily, leaning back and crossing her legs, her eyes fixed on Missy’s lips as she spoke. “How _did_ you do that?” 

“Please,” Missy rolled her eyes impatiently. “It’s not exactly difficult, especially given that the Doctor and I go _way_ back. Mind you, finding your bedroom… that took some doing. Nice little boudoir you’ve got going on, isn’t it? One might even have to go all human on you and call it a _love nest_.” 

“It might be, yeah. Why would you want to know?” 

“You’re having conjugal relations then?” Missy asked bluntly, and Clara gaped at her, astounded by her forthrightness yet enjoying the fact that Missy knew about her sex life with the Doctor, doubly enjoying the fact that Missy looked somewhat jealous. 

“Yes, we are,” she responded sweetly, trying not to grin too widely. “Not that it’s any of your business.” 

“Oh but it is my business,” Missy said with a smirk. “You managed to break him out of his dry spell, and _that_ is impressive. What’s more, you managed to make him _share._ ” She caught sight of Clara’s expression and giggled. “Oh, I know _all_ about that, dearie. Really. You’re rather memorable, you know? And several of your echoes… well, let’s just say you left a lasting impression on some of them.” 

“Not even the Doctor knows about that,” Clara noted calmly, wondering precisely how much Missy knew about her sex life, and the extent to which this was going to affect their unfolding conversation. “So how did _you_?” 

“Where else does a narcissist with free reign go pleasure seeking but to herself?” Missy finished the last of her wine, and the glass refilled itself automatically before Clara’s eyes, now wide with surprise. “Now now, dear, we can keep it between us girls, don’t you worry about that.” 

“What’s the catch?” 

“No catch,” Missy gave her a wide-eyed look of innocence, one that Clara recognised herself having used to devastating effect on the Doctor. She was disconcerted to note it had a similar effect on her. “None at all.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Clara said tartly, determined to put up at least a tokenistic resistance to what she knew Missy was going to suggest, determined not to simply capitulate to the Time Lady’s will. “There’s always a catch with you. World domination, that kind of thing.” 

“No, no, nothing like that.” Missy looked up at her through her eyelashes, and Clara felt her thigh muscles clench. “Well, maybe just the one.” 

“Which is?” 

“You know, I’ve always liked you, Clara.” Missy said brightly, in an apparent change of subject that only served to increase Clara’s level of arousal. _Oh,_ she thought to herself. _Maybe this is what it’s like to be on the receiving end of edging._ “There is, of course, a reason I picked you as my gift to our dearest gangly friend.” 

“Which was?” 

“Oh, well, you’re pretty, and fiery, and clever… the list goes on.” She smirked self-indulgently. “I always thought you would do him good, and if all else failed, do _me_ good.”

“Which is supposed to mean… what, exactly?” Clara swallowed, knowing without a doubt what Missy meant, yet deciding to play innocent for the sake of appearing hard to get. 

“Well, my dear… you’re an attractive human, I’m an attractive Time Lady…” 

“I thought you didn’t go in for ‘the reproductive frenzy of our noisy little food chain,’” Clara said sarcastically, not that she was complaining. “Or are you lowering yourself to our level now?” 

“I won’t be lowering myself anywhere, nano-brain. I’d be elevating you to my level, making you a queen… in kind.” She sighed. “All I want is _you_. In return, I’ll keep your little experimentations with yourself quiet, _plus_ you get to find out what it’s like with a Time Lady. Variety is the spice of life, after all.” 

Clara bit down on her lower lip, considering the – admittedly somewhat less than sexy – proposal, feeling herself beginning to grow wet. “So basically, you want to…”

“Fuck you, yes.” 

“And you’ve…”

“Always wanted to do so? Not from the very beginning, no, but you grew on me. Besides, we’re Eskimo sisters now, it’s only natural to cut out the middle man.” 

“You know,” Clara mused, trying to delay her response in order to avoid appearing overly eager. “That it might have been a lot easier if you’d just proposed this instead of leaving me dead roses and cryptic clues with dog food?” 

“Oh, but where would the fun have been in that?” Missy pouted. “Besides, the roses were a lovely touch – a nice reminder that your fragile little human life is short, so get a wiggle on before you turn to dust and those frankly _gorgeous_ tits head south.” 

“You used dead flowers to try and get laid?” Clara chuckled in spite of herself, shaking her head in surprise. “Well, that is… a new level of weird.” 

“Says the girl who’s shagged her own echoes.”

“…point.” Clara grimaced, knowing she couldn’t put off her answer for much longer. “Look, could you at least make this proposal a little less… oh, I don’t know, business-like?” 

Missy leaned back, meeting Clara’s gaze for a few moments as she pondered how best to continue. “Put the collar on,” she said firmly, her voice measured as she spoke, her tone indicating she would accept no arguments. “Now.” 

“I…”

“Now,” Missy reiterated, and Clara felt a shiver of arousal travel through her as she unclasped the collar and clipped it around her neck, the leather ice-cold against her skin. Being dominated was new. Being dominated was – though she hated to admit it – exciting. “Good girl. Stand up.” 

Unaccustomed to being submissive to the will of another so completely, Clara remained where she was, one eyebrow delicately arched at the Time Lady’s imperative. “Make me.” 

“You want me to make you?” Missy said with a light laugh. “Well, that can certainly be arranged, dear.” She leant across the table to Clara, her breath hot against Clara’s skin as she spoke. “Stand up, or I will do things to you that are so unspeakably filthy that you’ll be _crawling_ back to your pretty little husband.”

Clara stood, swallowing nervously, trying to ignore the growing wetness between her legs as she shifted a little from foot to foot, feeling the collar around her neck grow fractionally warmer in accordance with her body temperature. 

“Well now, that was dull,” Missy said with disappointment, pouting emphatically. “I was expecting a little fire from you, I was expecting you to argue with my demands… some control freak _you_ are.” 

“You want fire?” Clara asked with a small smirk, lunging for the Time Lady unexpectedly, pulling them both away from the table and kissing her with an intensity that surprised them both, as she pinned her back against the wall and began to fumble inexpertly with the ties of Missy’s ridiculous dress. “I can give you fire…”

“Temper temper,” the Time Lady chastised, pushing Clara back and straightening her outfit fussily. “We can’t just rut _here_ like animals… that’s what the back rooms are for, dear.”

“Back rooms?” 

Missy cackled then, the sound harsh and unexpected. “Clara Oswald, thinks she’s quite the little domme connoisseur, but can’t recognise a fetish club for love or money…” 

“Fetish club?” Clara felt her pulse leap, biting her lip to keep her breathing even. She was in alone in a fetish club with a madwoman. The idea should not have been as arousing as it was. “So where’s…” 

“The fetishists?” Missy shrugged casually. “I may have _suggested_ they all go and engage in other business. Didn’t want us being interrupted now, did I?” 

“And by suggested you mean…”

“Oh, I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re getting your knickers in a twist about,” Missy rolled her eyes extravagantly, as though the very idea was ludicrous. “Speaking of which, come along, dear, back room.” 

She took Clara tightly by the hand and led her through the bar area, through a doorway and into a deep red bedchamber, at the centre of which stood a four-poster bed carved from a rich, dark wood. Somewhere in the room, incense was burning, and there was a chest at the foot of the bed which Clara was certain contained the kind of toys that would have caused the Doctor to have a double coronary, despite his experiences with her 

“Wow,” Clara breathed, looking around in awe, licking her lips slowly as she considered what was about to happen in this undeniably sensuous room. “This is…” 

“One for your bucket list, probably, I know,” Missy interrupted, taking a step closer to Clara and leaning down to kiss her hungrily, running her tongue over the human’s bottom lip once before pulling away and affixing her with an almost-fond look. “You know, Ms Oswald… I’m rather looking forward to hearing you scream…”

“Oh?” Clara asked in a low voice, backing Missy against one of the pillars of the bed and beginning to kiss slowly along her jaw, then down her throat to where her collar met her neck. “I don’t think I will be.” 

“Is that a challenge?” Missy purred as she regained control, putting her hands on Clara’s hips, running her thumbs across the arch of her pelvic bone and then slipping her palms lower, under the hemline of the dress Clara had picked out so carefully, and stroking her bare thighs with her fingertips. “Because I can read your mind… I know what you crave, Clara Oswald… all those naughty little thoughts…” With a casual gesture she ripped open the tightly-woven fabric from hem to throat, looking down at Clara’s curves appreciatively, noting with approval the way she trembled with barely-suppressed arousal. Missy manoeuvred them both expertly, pushing the human woman back onto the bed and watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest as she lay there, looking up at Missy expectantly, completely vulnerable to whatever the Time Lady had planned for her.

“This…” Clara managed after a few seconds, regaining her ability to speak. “This is unfair…” 

“The nudity, the telepathy, or the fact I’m not going to give you what you want unless you’re a good little submissive?” 

“All of the above,” Clara panted, shrugging off her ruined dress with a scowl and attempting to stand, Missy pushing her easily back down with one hand. “At least let’s break even with the clothing…” 

“Oh, very well,” Missy intoned with resignation, permitting Clara to sit on the edge of the bed but giving her a warning look. “No funny business.” 

“Would I?” Clara asked, wide-eyed and innocent, as she began to unhook and unlace Missy’s many layers, her fingers roaming over inches of unfamiliar skin, her lips following somewhat hesitantly, warm kisses soliciting quiet intakes of breath from the Gallifreyan. 

“Oh you would,” Missy moaned, once she finally stood before Clara fully naked, feeling somewhat smug about the look of awe on the schoolteacher’s face. “And it’s going to be an _absolute_ pleasure.” 

“What is?” 

“Knocking some of the control freak out of you,” Missy smiled innocently, leaning down and unclasping Clara’s bra, discarding it on the floor gleefully. “Oh. _Such_ a joy _._ ” 

“I’m not happy with the word-” 

“Shut up, yes you are,” Missy said sweetly, running her hands up Clara’s sides and stroking the underside of her breasts with her thumbs. “I can smell your arousal from here.”

“That’s just creepy,” Clara argued, narrowing her eyes up at Missy, trying to ignore how pleasurable her hands felt on her chest. “But… well, accurate...” 

“Exactly, pet,” Missy smirked, running her nails lightly over Clara’s nipples and watching as she sucked in a breath in response. “Now, are you going to be a good girl and let me tie you up, or are we going to have to argue?” 

“Arg-” 

“That’s a girl,” Missy kissed her hard, surprising her, stealing her breath before she could complain, and Clara found herself pinned down, the glint of handcuffs flashing across her peripheral vision. “Now, lie still…” 

“Not a chance,” she said, fighting back as she remembered that she was _not_ submissive, that she should be in control, rolling them over and seizing the restraints, biting down on Missy’s bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. “I’m in charge of this…”

“You _wish,_ ” Missy retorted, kissing the hollow of Clara’s throat as her free hand rose to pinch her nipple, the action surprising the human enough for her to relinquish her grasp on Missy and the handcuffs momentarily, but that moment was all that the Time Lady needed to gain the advantage.

“Gotcha,” she crowed, snapping a cuff around Clara’s wrist and fastening the other end to a ring on the headboard. She repeated the action with the other wrist then moved so that she was straddling Clara’s hips, smirking down at her triumphantly, tracing patterns across the human’s stomach with her fingertips in a way that she knew would continue to frustrate Clara perfectly. “I win.” 

“Fuck you,” Clara spat half-heartedly, too turned on to argue more intellectually, rolling her wrists experimentally in the cuffs to check that she wasn’t going to lose a hand. “Fuck this.” 

“Oh, I intend to,” Missy grinned smugly. “You will be so well fucked you can hardly walk by the end of this, Oswald, that’s the deal, remember? Now, shut up, or I’ll have to gag you, and really, I don’t want to do that. You’ve got a very pretty mouth, and it’s to be put to good use.” 

Pulling away, she slipped off Clara’s sheer French knickers, tossing them aside as she leant down and placed a surprisingly chaste kiss on her sternum, looking up at her through her eyelashes with a wicked expression that only served to frustrate Clara, knowing that the human woman would be craving more than gentle touches, knowing that she would be desperate to come and that this simple act was thus only serving to tease her further. 

“Missy…” Clara said, unwilling to beg, _determined_ not to beg, but craving release with an almost embarrassing level of desperation. She would not capitulate. She would not give in to the Time Lady and beg to be touched, beg to be fucked, beg to be allowed to come. She was not accustomed to begging anyone for anything.

“Oh, love,” the Time Lady moved her head to one side, rolling her tongue around Clara’s nipple experimentally, noting the point at which she moaned slightly, the sound muffled as she held herself back from making further noise. “You’re allowed to be vocal about enjoying yourself… it’s just the incessant chatter I can’t be dealing with.”

“Fuck you…” Clara breathed again, and in a flash Missy’s hand was on her throat, pressing down expertly. 

“I could kill you,” she said simply, her hand unmoving as she looked down at Clara with an expression that could almost have been glee. “I could kill you right here and now, and no one would ever know the truth: that you died desperate to be fucked by your worst enemy.” 

“Missy…” Clara managed, her spine arching off the bed, her lungs crying for air even as her arousal heightened. “Please…”

“That’s better,” Missy said contentedly, withdrawing her hand and inching slowly down the bed. “Now. Really, Oswald… I do so deliciously hope you’re _not_ ready for this…”

 

~/~/~/~

 

When Clara returned to the TARDIS later that evening, she was sore, aching and yet content, pleasure radiating from her very core as she stepped through the doors and into the blessedly warm interior of the time machine. As she crossed the console room barefoot, she was interrupted by a booming voice from the lower levels, stating a simple fact: 

“You’ve been with someone.” 

She jumped, his presence startling her, and she considered the best course of action to take in order to avoid his inevitable anger if he knew _who_ she had been with, yet while avoiding outright lying to him about her activities.

“Yes,” she said simply, trying to act casually, watching as he ascended the stairs and took in the sight of her: clad only in scarlet lingerie, with her skin still flushed from her encounter. “I have.”

“What happened to your clothes?” 

“They got ripped,” she said truthfully with a small shrug, already mourning the loss of her favourite dress but appreciating Missy’s skill in managing to tear it from her body. She could buy a new one. “Heat of the moment and all.”

He raised his eyebrows, standing before her and tilting his head to the side as he looking her up and down, before turning his attention to the TARDIS monitor. “Where are we? Or where were _you_?” 

“A fetish club,” she confessed, deciding to add for his benefit: “It’s where humans go to…” 

“I know what a fetish club is, Clara,” he said, his voice laden with curiosity and barely-disguised lust as he entertained the thought of her in such a location. “I’ve been to a few in my time.” 

“Oh.” 

“So, tell me,” he leant back against the console slightly, narrowing his eyes at her. “What was the fetish you were entertaining?” 

“Urm,” Clara said uncertainly, unsure how to explain the matter at hand. “It wasn’t really… my… fetish… necessarily.” 

“Oh?” he gave her a surprised look, arching one eyebrow delicately. “So what was it?” 

“Someone else wanted to dominate me,” she said with a small shrug. “You know the sort of thing.” 

“Oh, I do,” he said with a soft moan, and it was then that she noticed the growing hardness in his trousers. “But… what did this _someone_ dominating you do? I want you to tell me.” 

Clara hesitated slightly, before saying with trepidation and burgeoning arousal: “handcuffed me.” 

“To what?”

“A bed,” she murmured, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relive the experience, knowing he would be imagining the situation himself. “She handcuffed me to a bed, and then she spanked me.”

There was a soft groan of approval from the direction of the Doctor, and Clara knew at once what he was doing. “What else?” 

“She told me…” her breathing hitched as the moans grew louder. “She told me I was a dirty slut… and she…” she moaned herself, one hand coming up to cup her breast through the thin fabric of her bra. “God, this is _unfair_ …” 

“Is it?” the Doctor asked her with some effort. “Is it really now? More or less so than you fucking my worst enemy?” 

Clara’s eyes snapped open and she met his gaze, noticing the lust burning there and biting her lip. “How do you…” 

“Oh, she left me a note,” he said simply, removing his hand from his trousers. “You’re a bad, bad girl, Clara Oswald…” 

“Am… am I?” she asked, dropping her gaze as he crossed the room to her, swallowing thickly at the thought of him doing to her the things that Missy had, the thought of her submitting to him wholly in the way that he submitted to her. 

“Do you know what bad girls get?” he asked her softly. 

“N-no…”

He tilted her chin up to look at him, smirking as he did so. “Punished.”

**Author's Note:**

> The vase that Clara receives from Missy can be found [here](http://www.ukosmith.com/eroticetchedglassware.htm) \- it's the _Julie Strain 2_.


End file.
